


Lying to You (Is a River of Sin)

by roseandheather



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: But They Also Want Each Other, Caveman Ed, Desk Sex, F/M, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, They love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:03:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandheather/pseuds/roseandheather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leanne is a clever minx, and Ed's poor desk gets rather abused.</p><p>Also, there is smut. <i>So much smut</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying to You (Is a River of Sin)

**Author's Note:**

> For Iris, who wouldn't let me not write it.
> 
> Thank you.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing??"

Leanne blinks sleepily in the suddenly-blazing light, peering up at him from where she's curled, catlike, on the surface of his desk. "I should think that's obvious," she says drily, propping her head on one elbow and re-crossing her ankles. The white coat she's wearing hides her from the knees up - is she wearing one of those old-fashioned nurse's dresses? - and her glasses are perched on her nose at an alarming angle. Her hair is tousled, wild and messy yet somehow flawless, and her skin is creamy and flushed and, quite frankly, edible.

Which still doesn't answer the question of what she's doing _napping on his desk._

In his office, yes, of course. It wouldn't be the first time she's snuck up here during a lull to catnap on his couch late at night, pager parked directly under her ear just in case.

But _on his desk?_

"Leanne," he says in as level and controlled a voice as he can possibly manage, "why, may I ask, are you sleeping _on my desk?_ "

Her smile turns wicked, and he feels his knees begin to wobble.

This can't be good.

"What?" she asks, the slant of innuendo in her voice starting something fizzing up and down his spine. "You can't tell me you've never even _thought_ about it."

And when she sits up and stretches, sleek and feline, he notices for the first time that what she's wearing under that buttoned white coat is... _nothing._

The arch of her shoulders lets the slit part over her bare thigh, and the neckline dips so low and creases so precisely he can quite clearly see the absence of anything even vaguely resembling a bra. Her hem hikes higher as she lets out a soft, satisfied moan, and one glimpse of curly dark hair confirms that - yep, no underwear, either.

His mind - already on shaky ground from the mere thought of 'Leanne' and 'on his desk' in the same sentence - goes up like a hydrogen bomb.

Ceramic crashes to the floor, pens spilling everywhere as his Giants mug shatters on the hardwood. She makes a delighted whimpering sound in the back of her throat, throwing her arms around his neck and arching against him as he fills his palms with her breasts, and his lips are moving everywhere. He's already trembling, this is almost over before it's started, but all he can think is...

 _"Mine!"_ he snarls against her throat, setting his teeth to the straining tendon in her neck. She makes another startled sound - this one shock, and not satisfaction - but her body goes liquid, molding even more closely to his as she goes soft and warm and willing in his arms.

 _Mine. **Mine.**_ _Mineminemineminemineminemine -_

"Yours."

The single, soft whisper punctures the hammering repetition in his mind, cuts through the fuzz and the heat to strike him to the soul.

She's impossible. She can't be real. Yet there she is, fingers curled over the edge of the desk, clutching at the slim handhold as though her life depends on it. Cheeks flushed, hair a-tumble, lips kiss-bitten; and her eyes - those extraordinary, glorious, glowing eyes - blinking hazily at him from under lashes almost too long to fathom.

 _"Leanne,_ " he groans, hoarse and ragged, and his mouth takes hers in a kiss even more wild for the sudden, searing shock of tenderness.

She's so wet she's _dripping,_ his fingers slipping inside her so easily she takes it with only a satisfied groan into his mouth. Hips hitching - as much as they can when she's pinned so firmly underneath him - she rocks against the pressure, fucking herself on his fingers, and he buries his lips against her breast and closes his eyes in self-defense.

"More," she gasps, letting go with one hand to push ineffectually at his shirt. He levers himself up and _rips_ ; buttons go flying, the white coat falling to her sides as her flushed chest heaves under the sudden shock of cool air. She moans aloud when his fingers slip out of her, making an unhappy noise in her throat, but her eyes brighten as he sheds his clothes as fast as he can.

All he can think of, all he _knows,_ is the heady scent of her skin and the way she moves against him. By the time they're skin to skin, kissing and touching like they can't get enough, she tugs his hand into position between her legs and his fingers slip inside her as though they'd never gone.

She keens as he curls his fingers to nudge his knuckle against her clit, pressing her open as she moans wantonly beneath him, and he has to settle his other hand at her hip to keep her from bucking them both off the desk. She's slick and wet and she _wants_ him, is pressing sloppy kisses to whatever skin she can reach and squirming beneath him as though she wants everything at once.

"I want you," she eventually gasps into his mouth, "to _fuck_ me. Right here. And every time you - oh, _Christ!_ \- every time you look at this desk, I want you to - _Edward! -_ want you to remember taking me here. Just. Like. This - _Ed!_ "

His name is sob more than shout from her lips, but he can't speak at all, because he knows he will. Knows that every time he looks at this desk, sits down to work or to have a meeting or just to breathe, he'll remember this: Leanne, white coat still beneath her in a stark contrast to her creamy summer-dark skin, chest flushed and heaving, all big, bright eyes and tumbling hair, looking up at him in total surrender. Will never forget the way she's _giving_ herself, his to do with as he wishes, impossible dream though it is.

And he wants it. He wants to take her here, in every way he can think of and a few he hasn't yet, over this desk that symbolizes both so much and so little.

He thinks, deep in the limbic, primitive, possessive recesses of his mind, he's wanted it since the first time he kissed her.

And then she arches against him, wet and open against his straining erection, and he stops thinking entirely.

She screams when he slams inside her, back arching helplessly as her knuckles turn white against the wood. He nearly screams himself; she's scalding wet, body clamping down around him on pure instinct, and he hears a tiny, distinctive snap as at least one of her nails breaks. He can't stop himself; he draws back and thrusts again, _hard,_ just to feel the joy of her stuttering breath and rippling channel.

It's as though the next thrust breaks something inside her, because she gives up on the desk to throw her arms around his neck. Her nails are digging crescents into his shoulder blades - he thinks, distantly, that she might have broken skin - and he can feel her thighs grip his waist as her heels dig into the small of his back.

He only realizes he's crushing her when he feels the swell of her naked breasts heaving against his chest, and looks down into wide-blown eyes. She's flushed halfway to her sternum, and when he tries to lever some of his weight off her, she shakes her head and demandingly drags him back down.

"Let go," she orders him, punctuating the words with a kick to his spine. "Goddammit, Ed, just _let go._ "

The next thing he hears is a dull snap, and then the desk lurches alarmingly underneath them.

" _Fuck,_ " he snarls, as he realizes that one of its legs has actually broken. That knowledge must hit him somewhere deep in the animal recesses of his brain, because he wraps one arm around her waist, the other around her ribs, and sets his teeth to the top of her breast.

She gasps, shudders, and then just _melts,_ shaking through her orgasm with a soft low moan. But he can't stop moving; he's pushing inside her with total abandon, nothing like finesse, and only the sweet, gasping, encouraging moans spilling from her throat ease his fear that he might be hurting her.

If he is, though, she doesn't seem to care. She won't let him lift himself off her, and though he knows the edge of the desk at her low back will leave her bruised in the morning, she won't let him shift her, either. She just clings as hard as she can, lifting herself to meet every thrust and arching into him with such wanton desire it nearly blinds him.

"Come on," she whispers, her breath caressing his ear, and the edges of his vision start to darken. He shakes his head, he doesn't want this to be over yet, but the cliff is coming too fast; he can't stop, his moans mingling with hers now, as she nips at his bottom lip.

For reasons he'll never understand, it's that tiny, almost imperceptible sting that sends him hurtling over the edge. He sinks his teeth into the thick muscle of her shoulder and _roars,_ guttural and animal and almost inhuman, and his world ends in a violent plume of nuclear fire.

In the split-second before he burns to ash, Leanne convulses in his arms, and a hot gush at his pelvis reassures him that, thank God, he managed to bring her with him.

When he comes to again they're sprawled on the floor, Leanne draped over his chest like a particularly affectionate kitten. The desk is still tilted at an alarming angle, and everything on it appears to have slid to the floor (themselves included), but he can't bring himself to care. All he can manage is to card his fingers through Leanne's sweaty hair as she blinks up at him with lust-glazed eyes.

Slowly, her lips curve in an intoxicatingly beautiful, incredibly smug grin. If she had whiskers, she'd be licking off double cream.

"It worked," she notes, still just a bit dazed, her voice as smug as her smile.

He manages to raise an eyebrow at her, though every other muscle in his body appears to have packed in for the night and gone on vacation. "How much of this, exactly, did you plan?"

"Well." She bats her lashes in false modesty. "I'll admit, actually breaking the desk was a bonus."

"You're an alarmingly clever little minx," he informs her, idly rubbing his thumb at the base of her neck. She whimpers in delight and drops her head back to his chest, where he knows she must be able to hear his heart pounding like a runaway train.

"Are you sorry?" she asks, and he doesn't have to see her face to hear the tiny, almost invisible note of uncertainty in the otherwise playful question.

"No," he admits, giving up on regret. The word seems to have no meaning with Leanne. "No, Leanne, I'm not. Not a bit of it."

"Neither am I," she sighs, pressing her lips to the nearest bit of skin she can find - his ribs, as it happens. Then she pauses. "Well. Maybe about the Giants mug."

"You're sorry about my Giants mug?" Dear God, and he'd thought he couldn't fall any more in love with this woman if he tried.

"I'm sorry for _you,_ " she clarifies, and nearly purrs as he caresses her shoulder. "Not so much for the mug."

"Fair enough." He lets out a long, slow breath, finally beginning to feel the aches and pains of their recent acrobatics. She had definitely drawn blood in at least two spots on his back, his abs are already starting to ache, and he can feel a line of bruises from the edge of the desk already starting to blossom along his upper thighs. She's not in much better shape; purple marks on her neck, shoulder, and left breast show the marks of his teeth, her wrists are already starting to bruise, and he can imagine a similar line of bruising along the small of her back. They'll be feeling this for days, and that doesn't even take the desk into account.

All he can think is, _worth it._


End file.
